the years.

I had a complete meltdown last month about my inability to write something the way I wanted it. The idea, more a feeling, was clear in my head. On the screen, the words were choked, trite, didactic, TERRIBLE. From there, I had another glass of wine and started freewriting. Halfway through, I closed my eyes and filled page after page in the darkness of my own head. And somewhere in my brain, those typing classes in 6th grade paid off, because I hit a surprising number of the keys correctly. What I mean is: for the most part, you can read it.

I feel like I wrote here just the other day, but an entire month passed. A month full of visitors and trips and running and food and work. It was late summer, and it was good. My swampy home (a.k.a. our nation’s capital) was unseasonably cool and not-humid. It made for plenty of glorious bike rides to work, especially on those days when everyone (read: Congress) was on vacation, and traffic was light.

It’s September now. The fall is coming. I’m ready for things that are new. I’m ready for that soul-cleansing dried leaf air. I’m ready for the rebirth of the season. And let me tell you this: I love writing here. I love what this place is. I love looking back and knowing what I thought and what made my heart hurt and how I’ve changed. Three years. It's nothing, but still....it's something.

I’m getting ready to make my birthday list (stay tuned). I’m thinking about what the next year will bring. I’m planning to write all of my ideas on sheets of paper (thanks to episode 023, on focus and what to do when you “have too many ideas”). I’m listening to this album on repeat (because I’m late to the Delta Spirit scene). I’m harvesting peppers from my fire escape. I’m eating corn covered in somuchbutter. I’m making plans. Lots and lots of plans.

Thanks for being here, if you are, whoever you might be. Three years of writing into the void, and I’m grateful to know that occasional eyes rest here.

I’m living.
I’m trying.
I’m believing.